


dashboard's melted (but we still have the radio)

by paopuleaf



Series: tillman henderson (is back from the dead) [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Lowercase, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Tarot, The Baltimore Crabs as Family, The Shadows, its all found family? always has been, playing fast and loose with blaseball fanlore, this is a lot of things with an open ending and im not sure how to tag!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paopuleaf/pseuds/paopuleaf
Summary: tillman henderson comes back from the dead.luis acevedo retreats to the shadows.(or; an incomplete look into a alternate universe. a deal with the birds, the conversations between a vlocaloid and a dirtbag, and a couple hijackings of the stadium boards.)
Relationships: Luis Acevedo & Declan Suzanne, Luis Acevedo & Kennedy Loser, Luis Acevedo & Mike Townsend, Luis Acevedo & Tillman Henderson, Luis Acevedo/Tot Clark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tillman Henderson & Silvaire Roadhouse, Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne
Series: tillman henderson (is back from the dead) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976746
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	dashboard's melted (but we still have the radio)

**Author's Note:**

> i starting writing this a bit after tillman died, got like 7k words in, and then tillman was resurrected and i absolutely lost my shit 
> 
> **song recommendations for this fic** :  
> \- "[dashboard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=penvn9VL32Y)" by _modest mouse_ [title taken from lyrics]  
> \- "[i'll rust with you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IN4aFwGy2ck)" by _steam powered giraffes_  
>  \- "[famous last words](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE5XBgDNQvw)" by _har mar superstar_
> 
> all mistakes in the tarot readings are my own! i do readings but i am still very new to it, comparatively

it's a quieter day, all piled into the living room of loser's townhouse, swapping stories over milkshakes somebody picked up on the way there. silvaire's sitting across from kennedy with a star map and tarot deck between them, tot fox and forrest are - _somewhere._ they'll turn up eventually. dreamy's leaning against nagomi's non-crab arm, tosser and monty are tossing a blaseball back and forth over the counter in the kitchen. finn, brock and pedro look two seconds away from getting into a playful tussle over a game of uno. 

parker's trading tips with luis - how to bat a little better, how to keep an eye on the ball, how to use their claw to their advantage - when silvaire groans so loud it makes the whole room go silent.

"what happened?" 

"kennedy pulled another damn tower, is what happened. swear t' god that's all that he has in that deck of his," silvaire explains, and everyone's gaze shifts to kennedy as one. he slumps under the pressure, sliding the card - the tower, indeed - back into the deck and setting it aside. "think blaseball's just one big _upheaval._ " 

"we all saw what happened at the finals, silvaire," brock throws back. "if _that_ isn't considered an upheaval, i don't know what the _fuck_ is." 

finn snorts. "maybe the great crab reckoning's coming up." 

"oh, shut the fuck up-" brock's laughing, though, and the room breaks out into layers of chatter again - luis slides away from parker with a wave to sit by kennedy and silvaire, form flickering for a moment before it solidifies. 

"the tower, huh?" 

kennedy buries his head in his hands, shaking his head. "yes. no. it's reversed, so- not the usual- _ish_ . i was asking about tilly," he admits, and luis hums. makes sense to them. "i don't know if i should pull a clarifying card or what- why would the reversed tower come up for him? 'personal transformation, averting disaster.' does it mean he's-" cuts himself off. "i just- don't _know._ little hard to interpret when this card comes up _every other day._ " 

"yeah, i can see where that'd be a mess." turns the words over and over in their head. "you think we might have a chance to bring him back?" 

"y' think that's a good idea?" silvaire doesn't seem judging, just - curious. luis shrugs. "wasn't around for what happened with jaylen, 'course, but 've heard the stories. we all have." 

_she got better_ , luis wants to say, because she _did_ and she's still a member of the garages - not their team anymore, but still - 

she got better seems a little hollow after all the deaths she caused anyway, though, so they keep their mouth shut. shrug again. "if anyone deserves to become a weird murder ghost, i think it's _probably_ tillman." 

kennedy snorts. "it's what he would've wanted." 

"'hey, can you bring me back from the dead real quick? i wanna incinerate all the people who threw peanuts at me,'" silvaire imitates, and luis laughs so hard it crackles at the edges like an old record player. kennedy's laughing too, even as he puts his deck away with shaky/shaky/shaky hands. "'don't laugh at me, i'm the reason nagomi came back, i sacrificed myself for all you assholes-'" 

"stop," luis manages to get out, kicking her shin with their foot - they think if they laugh any harder they'll short circuit, and - nagomi doesn't seem happy, her expression shifting to something unreadable in the corner of their eye. "c'mon, what's all that about disrespecting the dead?" 

silvaire kicks them right back. "i disrespected tillman when he was _alive,_ i think i have every fuckin' right to do so now that's he's dead." 

"disrespectful," they repeat, holding back a grin. "hey, kennedy, what'dya think?" 

kennedy pauses for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought. "hm… that's a tough one…" 

"pretty sure if tillman heard this he'd be cursing you in his grave," monty calls, armor clanking. 

"not like we could hear it!" 

forrest shambles in, tot fox lying on their mannequin head, and signs a quick "riv" as they settle near the couch. how they knew the group was talking about tilly is a mystery, but so are a lot of things about forrest, so luis shrugs it off and returns their attention to kennedy. 

"i was serious, earlier. 'bout bringing him back." there's bits and pieces connecting in their brain, like some kinda conspiracy board - there's questions they have to ask, things they have to figure out, but maybe, just maybe - 

just maybe. 

kennedy nods. looks willing to talk about it, which is nice. silvaire doesn't chip in yet, but she's attentive too. good. they'll need all the help they can get. "i miss him," loser says, "and he'd probably make fun of me for it, but it's true, y'know? didn't get matching tattoos with him for nothing. bringing him back would be… nice. really nice. even with the fucked up necromancy stuff." 

"maybe he'd give us an edge against that fucker from the finals." 

"maybe," luis echoes.

dreamy is looking at them, from across the room. tilts her head in a silent question. they hold up one finger in an answer. _later_ , it promises. _later._

they were there for the planning to bring jaylen back, and they were there when mike retreated to the shadows, and they were there when mooney doctor explained a way. maybe there's another. 

questions. answers. they can't promise anything yet. so they shift the conversation from tillman, and the quieter day moves on. (they text clark to see if they can get mike townsend's number.)

-

they can. 

it's pretty easy, actually - most of their hesitation comes from the idea that townsend's already gotten millions of questions. might not want to answer anymore. but between that and the idea of having information, luis might as well press the send button.

**luis acevedo** : hey townsend

**luis acevedo** : i'm going to cut to the chase because i think we both probably know what i'm going to ask about

**townsend** : yeah. i do

**townsend** : can't promise the answers will be good

**townsend** : or that you'll like them

**townsend** : or uh

**townsend** : anything, actually

**luis acevedo** : well

**luis acevedo** : i'm in the crabs now. we'll steal the entire fucking hall if we have to

**luis acevedo** : so just tell me what you have?

**townsend** : haha alright

**townsend** : just

**townsend** : be careful, acevedo?

**townsend** : i haven't been around for uh. years. but clark still seems pretty fond of you

**luis acevedo** : im fond of him too we're still _dating_. 

**luis acevedo** : 

**luis acevedo** : i'll be careful

**townsend** : cool

**townsend** : so.

the conversation stretches for a couple hours. luis learns about a hazy field, cobbled together from so many stadiums, ash-grey and shadows. learns about flickering people and a game of blaseball even when you're dead because of _course_ death isn't an escape, why would it be?

but most importantly, they learn how to get out, afterwards. slip between the shadows with tillman, stay behind. townsend says he doesn't know what that'll look like for them, being a vlocaloid, and they - shrug. it'll be fine. they don't even know if they're the one going. (if it's going to work, it'll be them. but maybe there's another way.)

(maybe/maybe/maybe. there's so much _fucking_ uncertainty, in this situation.)

**eye of light future sight** : hey dreamy

**dreamy** : hello

**dreamy** : are you ready to talk?

**eye of light future sight** : think so yeah

**eye of light future sight** : be at yours in five

**dreamy** : give me ten, please. rivers is getting ready to leave.

**eye of light future sight** : oh fuck okay got it

_hope i'm not interrupting anything_ , luis thinks - dreamy would probably tell them if that was the case. she's nothing if not blunt. they flicker/flicker/flicker and appear in front of her door in exactly ten, quick enough to see rivers speeding away on her motorcycle. dreamy turns away from the road and waves, calm. not surprised to see them in the slightest.

"you want to perform another resurrection," she states. it's not a question. luis doesn't know if she just overheard their talk with silvaire and kennedy, or if it's just that obvious, but they nod. "why?" 

good question. they don't have an answer, and they tell her as much, form going blurry for a moment. "guess it's just worth a shot?" 

if prompted again, they think, they could probably get a list set up. _i'm not the best batter, tillman would be a good replacement. the shadows isn't death, i don't want to keep playing._ none of them click quite right, though. 

luis guesses they don't have to. as long as they do it, that's all that matters. 

dreamy invites them in, and they settle on the couch, her with a cup of hot chocolate and them with nothing but their claw and hand to fiddle with. "why do you think you should be the one to do it?" 

"had an idea, with my projectors," luis begins. "there's one inside me- lets me be all hard light and stuff, that's the big one. only supported because there's a network, though, and i don't think there's one where tillman is." they pause, and dreamy gestures for them to keep going. "but it's got the ability to make stuff besides me, and i've teleported tot- tot clark- with me, before, so- i thought, maybe, if we could get a manual projector into the trench, i could teleport there, grab tilly, and- get out. it'd expend a lot of my energy, and i'd have to slip into the shadows to leave without hurting tillman, but…" 

"but you think it'll work." 

"... yeah." 

dreamy takes a sip of her hot chocolate. hums. clouds patterned with galaxy drift off her hair in waves, and luis follows them with their eyes as they wait.

"i think it is worth a shot." she holds up her drink, as if to say _not done yet, wait,_ and so they do. "you should clear it with the doctor, one of them, and the rest of the team as well. perhaps kennedy will not pull the tower, this time, if you ask him to give you a reading." 

"what're the odds of _that_." 

"low, admittedly," dreamy responds, a hint of a smile on her face. "i will be honest, i do not think i'll be able to stop… you call it worrying. i do not think i'll be able to stop worrying, either way. i don't quite understand it, but i think losing two would be…" 

she doesn't finish. luis fills in the blanks themself. 

"i'll be careful," they promise, for the second time that day.

and for the second time that day, they're trusted.

by the time the day ends - with dreamy helping them explain to the others, a cacophony of chipping in and encouragement, they've promised a lot more times.

they'll come back, even if it's to the shadows. what was that song? the one tilly recorded on the old cd - never released, only played two nights after his incineration while the team was half-awake and crowded in brock and tosser's living room. _riv to you but i'm different. yeah._

rest in violence to tilly, but - 

luis won't get incinerated on their way home.

-

the null team stadium is - 

something. tillman's gotten used to seeing it, over the past year, between the crack of his bat against the odd, shadowy ball and the time spent in the stands with the other members of the Dead Idiots Club. it's always dark, hazy, like some sorta stupid perma-fog, and he's _real_ fuckin' tired of it. 

crack. hit. crack. hit. a careful monotony. 

there's no cds to blast down here, not really, so tillman listens to the echoes of his teammates and says some echoes of his own and ignores the way his hands and legs are covered in ash up to the elbow/knee. ignores the way he's not really _solid -_

crack. hit. crack. hit.

not like he can see _shit_ , anyway. all their news is from the crackly old radio in derrick's room and the occasional word of mouth from a shadowed player that would pop in, looking dazed but nonetheless _kinda alive._ hard not to be jealous. hard not to be bitter. 

crack. hit. crack. hit.

he misses the crabs. he misses baltimore - wow, what a fucking _thought,_ huh? he misses declan, he misses kennedy, he even misses silvaire, dreamy - everyone, really. but it's been - months. 

crack. hit. crack. hit.

the missing's dulled down to an ache, replaced by something wholly different. make a deal, get fucked over, save your teammate. lose the battle, win the war, or whatever that stupid piece of shit metaphor is. he wishes there was a bird to aim his next hit at.

crack. hit. crack. hit.

a flicker of light, in the darkness. the game pauses. are they in-between innings? tillman doesn't know. he clutches on tighter to his bat and gets ready to swing. another flicker of light.

silence.

a projector clatters to the grass. the lights on it flicker, flicker, flicker, and then _luis fucking acevedo_ is standing there, looking - shocked? surprised? _something._ "tillman!" 

tillman blinks once. twice. "what the fuck." acevedo stares back at him, holding out a hand with their bat in their claw, form glitching and wavering the longer they wait. 

"if you don't get the _hell_ over here, i'm going back without you-" an empty threat. they look panicked all the same, fingers flashing out of existence as they reach too far into the hall, far enough that the projector can't cover them. " _tillman!_ "

mumbling fills the air around him, echoes of the others, ash/smoke/fire still flickering at his feet/in his lungs/around his bat. go/go/ _go_ , they tell him, rushed and frantic.

tillman doesn't let go of his bat. 

and -

\- he takes the hand. 

in a moment, tillman's lying on the floor of the crabs locker room, looking up to see so many familiar faces - it's _bright,_ and startling, and he's still covered in ash and - 

luis isn't holding onto his hand anymore, desperate grip digging into his skin.

luis isn't anywhere.

"that fucking idiot," tillman says. "what the fuck." 

dreamy's the one to drag him upright. "welcome back, henderson," she greets, and he can't do anything but snicker. the ache of _missing_ is gone, and all that's left behind is relief and that pent-up bitterness.

"was coming back ever a question?"

-

_tillman henderson comes back from the dead._

_luis acevedo retreats to the shadows._

-

**INITIATING EMERGENCY CODE NUMBER 679270.**

-

_bzzt._

kennedy picks up his phone, rubbing his eyes - what _time_ is it, who's texting at this hour - and turns on the screen. expects to see a text from parker, or maybe tillman, or forrest - 

this is not what kennedy sees. instead of any of those normal, reasonable things, he sees a small figure on his screen, climbing on top of his apps to get to eye level. they're familiar, and he recognizes them near _immediately_. 

"luis, _what._ " 

"glad you woke up!" the tiny luis ends up settling on top of his messages app, kicking their feet as they wave. "hi! hey! uh. townsend mentioned that being sent to the shadows might be a little fucked up, because… you know! so here i am." 

"it is _four_ in the morning." 

luis looks up at the clock, looks down. has the decency to look a little guilty about it. "figured if anyone wouldn't mind being woken up this early as much, it'd be you." 

"i. yeah, okay, fair. i'm happy you're back, luis," kennedy mumbles. he's _awake_ , now, fuck, and slides out of bed, setting his phone against the lamp as he pulls on a shirt. "you on everyone's phones?" 

"just the crabs! and declan's, and clark's, and… townsend's. that's about it. i can still text in the chiclawgo group chat and stuff, though." 

"you already let them know?" 

"yep!" luis' claw clicks, tinny through the phone speakers, and kennedy smiles. "only, like, two other people are awake, though. declan just sent me a firefighter emoji and what i think is _maybe_ a yo?"

kennedy goes to check himself, and luis brings up the messages window, clicking up the messages and pointing to the one they meant. "tilly probably fell asleep on his arms." 

"or he stayed up until four playing his xbox again." 

"or both," kennedy concedes, and luis nods. they move out of the way as he shoots a quick message off - half misspelled, for how bleary everything still is - and clicks off the screen. "can you still see?" 

there's silence, for a moment or two, and he's this close to turning back on the phone before luis speaks up again. "sorry, that's a yeah! i forgot you can't see me doing a claws up."

"good. don't want to leave you in the dark." he slides the phone front-camera-forward into his shirt pocket. "that work?" 

“perfectly.” 

kennedy hums, satisfied, and grabs his bag, making sure his tarot deck and keys are in there. “don’t forget your wallet,” luis reminds, and he freezes on his way to close the door, taking a few steps back and grabbing it off the shelf.

  
“thanks- last time i forgot it, i had to call pedro for a ride home, and- don’t wanna do that again.” the memory isn’t fresh, not really, but riding in the RV on pedro’s back is an _experience,_ and he’d rather not do it again. “i’m headed to the docks by the stadium. you gonna stick around or hop off?”

“i’ll stick around.” there’s a quiet tune coming from the phone’s speakers, probably from luis, but kennedy doesn’t mind much. it adds a little to the noise of the street, and when they get to the dock, it’s one of the only things he can hear. it fades as they speak, voice low. “do you come here a lot?”

he shrugs, before realizing - they probably can’t see that, huh. “i- yeah, uh, give me a sec-” the phone fits nicely against one of the thicker wooden beams, and he turns on the screen, watching as luis blinks once/twice and waves. “i come here a couple times a week. not a lot of other people do, but at least someone always knew where to find me.”

“huh. cool.” 

they fall into some kind of companionable silence, luis fiddling with a couple widgets as kennedy shuffles his deck. the water beneath them shifts, ripples - they both jolt to attention, and then - 

finn pops up, holding a waterproof bag, and kennedy waves. “i saw the text,” he offers, “and figured i’d head over.” luis tumbles off the app onto the “floor” of the phone before waving, and he snorts, reaches up to set the bag on the dock. 

“how’re you doing?”

“fine.” finn shrugs. “not much has been going on, besides, y’know, the obvious. you were gone, what, for a week? tillman’s just been… adjusting.” he grimaces, and kennedy laughs, shaking his head. “... he’s being an asshole about it.”

“is this supposed to be a surprise?” luis snorts, a tiny question mark bubble appearing over their head. “had _extensive_ conversations about this before we did this shit.”

“won’t be able to see if he’s a ‘weird murder ghost’ until the season starts. dawn of the final week,” kennedy adds, and finn grins, pulls himself up next to them on the dock and lets his tail hang down. “what’d you bring?” he gestures to the bag with one hang, and finn pulls it closer.

“brock woke up early this morning, started stress-cooking eggs. dropped a plate and it woke me right up.” he shuffles through the bag with a _zip_ and crackle of waterproof plastic. his hand comes out holding a tupperware of scrambled eggs, still warm, a fork on top. “figured i’d deliver ‘em around. sorry, none for you, luis.” 

“not like i could eat ‘em anyway, ‘s all good!” they pause. “hey, wait, ‘stead of eggs- can i see your phone? or, uh, can you hold it up to kennedy’s? i wanna see if i can do something.” 

“yeah, sure!” he holds it out, and they quickly scan the apps - there’s one in the corner that stands out, icon a crab with glitching all too similar to theirs. finn clicks on it. it opens up an interface and - “hey, that’s you!”

“sure is. i was wondering what happened when i was only on one phone… that button probably means you can call me? i have… no idea.” 

kennedy stops mid-bite, swallowing as his eyebrows furrow. “you don’t know about your own program?” luis snorts.

“you’d be surprised. thanks, finn! that’s all i needed.”

“no prob,” he responds, giving luis a thumbs up and slipping his phone back into his pocket. “is the program thing another reason why we gotta burn your contract?” the contract’s a piece of shit, of _course._ luis relays as much to him, and he nods. “we’ll see if we can get to that after we kill god.” 

“cheers.” loser clacks the fork against the plastic in a mock toast, and his phone mimics the noise, sounding less like glass against glass and more like the ring of a bell. finn taps his nail on one of the metal screws in the dock, and the note rings out for a long moment. “speaking of killing god- wanted to do a reading, for the next season. you guys okay if i do it now, or-?” 

“go for it.”

“as long as you don’t pull the tower again.”

kennedy groans, taking out the deck and shuffling it. “contrary to silvaire’s belief, i don’t actually own a deck of exclusively the tower. i swear they just- metamorphize into it if they’re around me enough.”

“‘fate hates this man: ten tricks for exclusively pulling major arcana,’ local news reports,” imitates luis, slipping into a voice somewhere between a clawmentator and the dead-eyed reporter on the local news station. kennedy laughs, fakes throwing a card at them as they grin. “what spread are you using?”

“i was thinking a clarity spread- maybe less focused on the season as a whole and more focused on… the weather, or something.” he pauses. sighs. “that sounds a lot more stupid out loud. those severe weather warnings have me worried.”

solar eclipse, blooddrain, birds. finn can understand the concern - at least it’s not _peanuts_ , not after what happened at finals. “solar eclipse weather’s probably the big one to go for then, right? blooddrain seems like it could be in our favor, and birds- i dunno, without the peanuts on the field, i think the worst that could happen is they catch wind of our latent hatred and get our asses.”

“i like blooddrain! it’s fun,” luis says. of course. they’re the one that got to siphon last season, and that seems like a rush - even if they won’t be able to do it this season. “and nagomi seems like she’s going to be pulling a lot of it, with the new abilities she got granted. cool teeth solidarity.” 

“so that leaves the solar eclipse. can you help me clarify how the solar eclipse weather will effect us?” kennedy shuffles/shuffles/shuffles, keeps murmuring the question quietly, and lays out the cards. one on the top, three on the bottom in a row, stark colors against the dull wood. 

finn leans over, careful not to drip. “hey, look, no tower.”

“told you. the overall situation… the emperor, reversed. could be related to the peanut, but i don’t know how it comes into play with the eclipse…” he trails off, flips the next card. “five of cups. grief or disappointment. three of pentacles, that’s teamwork focused, strategy.” pause. “three of swords, grief and heartbreak- betrayal.”

“sounds- uh, sad.” 

kennedy pulls a pen out of his bag and marks down the cards on the back of his hand, before sliding them back into the deck and putting it back into his bag. “could be. that’s not much of a surprise, considering… everything about it. incinerations could be corresponded to the grief, and teamwork is probably important to… avoid it? the emperor is what’s catching me here, i guess.”

“you mentioned it could be related to the peanut, right?” luis shrugs. “if people are losing people, it probably doesn’t help that situation at all. blaseball’s, like-” they gesture, doing vague hand movements made vaguer by the screen, “blaseball’s like a big, tangled windchime, or- a web. everything’s connected somehow, right?”

“food chain,” finn chips in, and luis nods. kennedy hums, traces the words on his hand, turns it over in his thoughts. 

“so if something gets fucked over by the eclipse for us, or even for others, it could be traced back to the peanut, somehow. spider in the web.” when he says it out loud, it makes a lot more sense- good to have people to bounce off of, sometimes. “that... could fit. we’ll have to wait and see.”

“only a week left. weather forecasts should be coming out even sooner.”

“you guys ready?”

“no,” loser answers. sincere. “but we’ll do it anyway.”

they’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.

-

every practice field tillman goes to is fucking- _infested_ with birds. they’ve been following him since he came back, perched on streetlamps, telephone wires, the edges of docks. he saw one staring through declan’s window in _chicago._ even now, as he settles for some nowhere field at the edge of town, wrapping his bat in new bandages, they circle overhead.

watching. _waiting._ he’s sick of them.

“fuck off!”

the birds do not fuck off. if anything, they start to circle lower. tillman scowls, flings up his bat to point it at them in some sort of threat. (crack. hit. the cycle of it keeps echoing in his head. crack. hit. the birds would scatter, after that.) one perches on the end of it, eye held carefully in its beak, like nagomi’s but all _wrong._

“you’re back,” it says, with no mouth. the beak is unmoving. “would you like to make another deal, henderson?”

“i hate when you do that,” he tells it. the birds do not care, but it makes him feel a little better anyway, to insult them, to insult a _god_ . fuck ‘em. “and i’m not an idiot, y’know. why the hell would i make another deal with _you_? i just got back from the dead club, dude.”

the bird cocks its head, almost curious. “who said you would die?” everything about the phrasing of that sets tillman on edge, but he doesn’t shake it off the bat. “you traded your life to free nagomi, before.”

“i still think i would’ve died anyway, l-m-a-o-”

“h̵̹̲̲̓̚͝e̷̻̿̓̈́̚n̴͓̈́͘d̵̺͔̰̈e̴͉͋r̸̞̩̜̻̽̇̐̓s̶̩̽o̸̠͔̎̾̐n̸̘͈̟̘̍̐̄͘.” 

the mental noise is _grating,_ like someone threw a pitch directly to his brain, and he holds one hand up in mock surrender. (maybe he could’ve dealt with it back in the hall. half of the echoes there were distorted, anyway.) “‘kay, ‘kay, don’t interrupt the bitchass birds, got it.”

“you, regardless of intention, freed nagomi. we are offering you another opportunity. like... hotdogfingers, in a way.”

_oh fuck no_ is right on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back, narrowing his eyes. the bird continues, unblinking and unphased. “you mark people. they may die, they may not. in return, we’ll do our best to free those that the peanuts have stolen.” a pause. permission to speak.

“i literally don’t give a shit about any of them,” tillman begins, and the bird caws in something like amusement. “i _don’t_. what the fuck are you offering this for? i kill people and you, what, do something we could do when we finally kill that nut fuck once and for all?”

the blaseball gods don’t play fair. “who says you can kill it, as it is right now? less people means less power. you saw what it can do. you don’t remember it, not fully. ghosts tell the living no tales. you aren’t supposed to be here. you aren’t supposed to remember. but you can change it.”

tillman finally shakes the bird off the bat, tossing it a couple feet away and shoving himself back, away. yells loud enough to startle some of the other feathery fucks - _good._ “you’re driving a real shit bargain here.” 

“will you accept?”

a pause. silence. (crack. hit. crack. hit.) 

“fuck you.” it’s the closest they’ll get to a yes. the birds caw as one, a cacophony of judgement, and then fly off, leaving a mess of feathers and a lone shadow behind. the shadow doesn’t sit back up, not yet - instead, he raises an arm, staring straight at his tattoos.

dark red, mostly - they used to be all solid color, but now they’re ash-grey starting at the fingertips, fading somewhere in the middle of his forearm. claws and waves, with the occasional feather, a reminder. “shit sucks,” he verbalizes, for lack of anything better to say about it, and someone huffs a laugh from behind him.

“shit sucks,” tosser echoes. tillman jolts and sits up, grabs his bat. brushes the dust off as he stands. _how fucking long has he been here?_ “why’re you out here? rest of the team’s practicing closer to home.” 

“why’re _you_ out here?” 

“finding you, mostly. there’s only two days left ‘till season starts. loser wants to work on team strategies." tosser's holding a ball, running his fingers across the seams - if tillman blinks, he can almost see it flicker. "you comin'?" 

is he? probably not. the birds are gone, now, but he doesn't want to have to look at the one constantly perched on nagomi's shoulder. (mostly, he doesn't wanna accidentally call it a whore to her face. there’s some lines he _won’t_ cross with insults.) "nah, that's lame. we already have team strategies, duh." 

"you mind practicing with me, then?" 

a shrug. "i don't see why not." 

crack. hit.

tosser's at the mound, and tillman's at the plate, and there's no hazy fog or red-outlined pillars of ash. it's still so familiar. 

crack. hit.

"you're a shitty pitcher." 

"you were too." 

"yeah, right." he was.

crack. hit.

"what's with all the feathers?" 

"there's, like, a total of three weather for the next year. what do you _think's_ with all the feathers." 

"a solar eclipse," tosser deadpans, right as he pitches.

tillman misses the ball - he was _not_ laughing, fuck off (it was more of a cackle, anyway) - and the silence afterwards is deafening. his mind fills in the blanks.

(crack. hit.)

tosser fills him in on the plan for team strategies (they had changed, in the last year, which isn’t a _surprise._ ) luis had hit a lot of singles, drew a lot of walks, but tillman used to hit a lot of triples, so that should fill in the hole there. he'd trade with silvaire for defense, get back to his old spot. he's lucky that he doesn't have to deal with forrest chasing him around again, tosser says, and tillman snickers - as if he didn't spend eight whole fuckin' years dealing with that before now. 

crack. hit.

"you should probably talk to acevedo." 

"they're a dumbass." 

a pause. tosser shrugs. "maybe. would you have rather stayed in the hall?" it's - genuine. tillman doesn't know how to say _i'm not sure_ without sounding like a fucking coward, so he doesn't. "they'll come to you if you don't come to them." 

"let 'em try." 

crack. hit.

(they do- try, that is. tillman turns off his phone before they can say anything.)

-

he shouldn't be allowed to bring his bat with him. (and yet.)

he shouldn't be allowed to slam it into the defense player at first base. (and _yet._ )

the umpires don't incinerate him, and the game goes on.

the birds circle overhead.

-

“you’re back,” silvaire says, nonchalant as ever. as if she never doubted it. tillman grins, sharp, leans back on his still falling apart bat. it’s the first time he’s spoken to her since the day of resurrection - she doesn’t seem bothered by it.

"you know they could never kill me in a way that fuckin' matters."

she snorts. "that'll be your second famous last words, henderson."

"not plannin' on dying again. do i look like an idiot?" if he had a nickel for every time he said some form of that, he’d have two nickels - not a whole lot, but it’s weird as hell that it’s happened twice.

silvaire says nothing. 

"yeah, yeah, fuck you too."

"how many people do you plan on taking out instead?"

so she's noticed. tillman shrugs. (thinks of birds.) "as many as it takes." he doesn't think she knows why. nobody will - and that’s fine, actually. it's not like tillman "resident dirtbag" henderson coming back from the grave and immediately smacking people with his bat is surprising, or the fact that he's marking them for death while he's at it. doesn’t need to be redeemable or some bullshit - just another tuesday in blaseball.

just another tuesday. he ignores how he’s stopped coming up with secret handshakes in favor of bantering with the stray crows outside. 

“fair ‘nough.” she settles next to him, back against the fence. “tosser says you’ve been practicing on your own. too scared to show off after being dead for a year?”

“w- no, i’m not a fucking pussy- watch.” tillman knows it’s bait. he _knows,_ and yet he swings up his bat and yells for monty to throw him a ball. silvaire watches, halfway between amused and neutral, as he completely fucking _misses_. “that- didn’t happen. you didn’t see shit.”

“hm. maybe i didn’t. maybe you should start coming to practice again.” 

and there’s the hook - caught, line and sinker. tillman kicks up some dust in her direction, and she shifts, letting it fall back to the ground. “yeah, sure, got it. don’t blame me when a buncha stupid birds show up to hang out.” 

“monty’s already been bringin’ them since they got the decree. nothin’ new.”

“ _ugh_.”

-

the sound of bells chiming is absent from the locker room - it was only a year-and-a-week of routine, at this point, but the loss is _weird_ . kennedy texts luis, but gets no response, just a read mark and a heart reaction. he pokes his head outside the room - _where are dreamy and forrest?_ \- and sees nothing but flickering/static stadium screens and filled stands. and - tillman, who’s just outside the doorway. looks two seconds away from strangling a crow next to him as he speaks in low tones. 

that’s probably fine.

silvaire’s folding up charts and putting them back into her locker when he walks in, carefully dodging around a mourning parker. monty’s gently tossing dolls for brock to catch - finn’s pitching this game, and he looks focused, eyes wide as he rolls back/forth. loser’s mentally preparing to ask after the wild wings’ legal team- if forrest’s recruited _two_ others into his plan, it’s probably something big. definitively not legal. 

“hel- _lo_ baltimore!”

his back is to the screens, but silvaire can clearly see, surprise turning to a smirk. “if i turn around, is luis going to be on the stadium screens?”

“do you want the honest answer?”

“no,” he says, but he turns anyway, and yep - there’s luis, human-sized again, pretending to be an interviewer sitting across from forrest and an expressionless dreamy. it’s clear they’re not actually there, but it’s _also_ clear they’re very willing to play along, and kennedy- blinks. once. twice. “... this might as well happen.”

“this is an interview with two members of the crabs, our very own sutton dreamy and forrest best!” the bell on their wrist jingles as luis gestures. the pair both wave, once, eerily in sync. “for our first question- what’re your pregame rituals?”

“questioning everything. why?” dreamy tilts her head, and there’s laughter from the stands. the edges of the screen are staticky. “what’s yours?” 

“well, let’s get forrest’s first- oh.” luis waits for forrest to finish signing. (‘i am not partial to infringe our laws,’ he lies, and they have to hold back laughter.) “i- for legal reasons, forrest best does not have a pregame ritual! mine’s bells,” another jingle, “and i figured it’d be a good question to start us off with!” 

the screen blinks out - **error: please standby** \- before it returns to the three of them. “aw, c’mon, they’re catching up. next question, maybe one for the road- favorite coffee?” 

“cold brew,” forrest signs. luis translates quickly and gives a thumbs up.

“how do you drink coffee? you are a mannequin, best, i do not understand. how would _you_ drink coffee, acevedo?” 

“that’s for us to know, and you to find out! or-” 

they’re cut off by another burst of static and standby screen, lasting for around a minute this time before they come back. “well- looks like that’s all for now! we’ll see you next time, baltimore! keep an eye out!” luis waves, cheerful as ever even as their form statics out and fades. forrest and dreamy vanish, appear two moments later in the locker room, and the stadium screen goes dark.

“what the hell was that?” tillman looks to dreamy, and she tilts her head. forrest scuttles to hang next to nagomi. neither of them give _any_ answers. “next time we do an interview, ‘s gonna be me. _i’m_ the fan-favorite here.”

“obviously,” pedro deadpans, like a liar, and tillman says - something, in response. kennedy’s attention is entirely grabbed by the familiar ring of a bell coming from his pocket. 

luis is on the screen, form flickering as they lay out on the “floor” of the phone. “did you see?”

“how- you were on every screen in the stadium, of course i saw.” 

“so it worked!” they stand up, quick, ignoring the way their hand and claw vanish for a second. “nice!” flicker/gone. he hears them talking to forrest on the other side of the room, then dreamy, before they come back, seeming- winded. (can vlocaloids be winded? good question. loser doesn’t know the answer.) 

“you should take a minute, luis,” he suggests. they give him a thumbs up, before a bunch of “z”s promptly appear over their head. _what._ “... i think they just went into sleep mode.”

parker walks over, pokes at them. they don’t even stir. “they’re going to miss the game,” they mourn, “but it’s probably needed after- whatever that was?”

“they asked if they could come along with forrest, and i simply acted as an assistant,” dreamy adds. very unhelpful, but at least it proves his guess right - god, forrest should _not_ be allowed to have the help of someone who can hack into places. kennedy’s already glancing at the door to see if anyone’s coming to - fine them, or something. “we can catch them up on the game afterwards. solar eclipses are rarely uneventful.”

kennedy nods. slips his phone into his locker and leaves a scribbly sticky note within the camera’s view. _that was cool :] take care of yourself we're playing the game._ he’s out onto the field, leading the rest of the team. (captain in everything but name. more likely to get called _dad,_ though, then anything else.)

raúl leal gets hit by tillman after siphoning tot fox. kennedy’s pretty sure nagomi would’ve gone after him if tillman hadn’t. (later - the crabs find out they got incinerated, in a game against the shoe thieves. but that’s not now, or here -)

the crabs win the game. 

-

luis is deep-diving into the wikipedia page on screw threads when they get a tug down the line, somewhere, from someone’s phone. they don’t bother to check before they head over, but- tillman is _not_ who they expected to see on the other side of the line.

“can you do that stadium screen thing again?”

“can you give me a normal greeting?”

“nah.” tillman’s leaning against the outside of the crabitat, phone tilted just enough for luis to spot the electronic screens flashing ads on the side. “you gonna help or what?”

they shrug. might as well. “yeah, okay! what’re we doing?” tillman doesn’t answer, just pushes off the wall and starts to walk, texting declan on his watch as he goes. “should i be asking _where_ instead? going to the circus you popped out of?” 

“shut the fuck up,” tillman retorts, almost on reflex. luis snickers. “don’t tell me you still have that video.”

“i won’t tell you, then. keep an eye on the stadium screens next game, though!”

“mother _fucker-_ ”

their snickers break into laughs, and tillman shakes the phone a bit. “i- hah, okay. i need to know where we’re going so i can cover up our tracks. i’m assuming this is a lot less personal than the stadium, so i can probably make it look like you were at home,” luis offers, “or maybe just at declan’s, or something? also, i’d like to know who’s shit we’re fucking up.” 

“we’re headed to the chicago stadium. or- _you’re_ headed to the chicago stadium. declan’s already there. i’m just dropping by loser’s place.” tillman twists his bat up, puts it over his shoulder. (why does he even still have it?) “he’ll be livestreaming the whole thing to me so we can coordinate. y’know how fuckin’ _awful_ the lovers were with blooddrain and charm, so we’re gonna get them back.”

“dick move.” the bell on their wrist gives away the excited twist of their hand, claw clicking along. “we don’t wanna paint a target on the firefighters’ back, though?”

“whatever. chiclawgo rights, yeah yeah. we’ll have something figured out when it comes to that.”

luis pauses. a little internet loading symbol appears over their head, circling, before it turns into an exclamation point. “what if we put it on all the stadiums?”

tillman stops. processes. laughs, sharp. “oh _fuck_ yeah. you’ve got connections?” 

“townsend’s got ‘em. i’ll go from declan, to his phone, then slips through the texts from other players to get to that town. from there, though…”

“you’re stuck in that player’s phone, right? laaaaame.” 

“it’s a work in progress! we should probably focus less on the lovers, too. maybe just go after everyone who’s gotten buffs from blooddrain? ‘hey, _fuck_ this weather, actually,’ something like that. one team specifically will get it traced back to us.” 

a scoff, but tillman seems interested, tapping his fingers as he thinks. stops. “... anti-everyone propaganda.” 

“w- hello?” 

“you- think about it, dumbass, they can’t trace it back to one team if it’s all equally fucked! and if it’s, like, just not shitty enough to cross any big lines, it’ll probably just end up, like, causing a bunch of chaos for the losers who have to take it down. might go viral, too,” he says, and luis nods, climbing up onto the messages app. “god, i am _so_ fucking smart.” 

they roll their eyes, but it _is_ a good idea, and coming up with anti-crabs propaganda’ll be fun and fuck, they’re convinced now. “let’s do it then! we can start with the firefighters stadium and go from there!” 

“let’s fucking go!”

declan’s waiting when they get there, and they get plugged into the system with a surprising show of competency from him. “what’re we going to do for the crabs one?”

“crabs bad?” he suggests. 

“no, that’s one of our chants, i’m- like, ninety percent sure it’s _mostly_ affectionate at this point?”

tillman’s voice comes in through the speakers, shitty mic picking up on every bit of background noise. “crabysmal, they suck shit. so anemic now that they won’t be able to play. get them into the finals so we can steal their players.”

“why are you so good at insulting us.”

“it’s the only skill he has,” declan informs them, fighting off a grin at tillman’s “ _hey!_ ” on the other side. “get them into the finals so they can choke and fuck it up again, maybe.”

luis draws a crab on the bottom of the poster, underlining it in thick red lines. “think we should avoid saying stuff about anemic things. dreamy n’ fox n’ d- kennedy all got pretty fucked up by that.”

“mm. declan’s onto something with the choke part. we really fucked that one up- get the crabysmal team into the finals, point and laugh as they fuck up and sacrifice another team to the nut.” 

“that’s it! that’s the poster.” luis scribbles it down and pastes it onto the virtual billboard, right front and center. “got any ideas for anti-firefighters?” 

declan snorts, pushes the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows and makes a wide gesture to the entire stadium. “it’s a wealth of content. we’re fucking _awful._ ”

“help the firefighters speedrun to party time- it’s not that hard, we promise. they don’t know how to hit a fucking ball,” tillman says it like it’s a statement of fact, “and their pitching sucks ass.” 

“think we just should get copy-paste screenshots of goobie’s personal twitter account with the caption ‘is this your man.’” 

“the disrespect…” luis trails off. “partytime speedrun any percent champions. their batting is so bad that the bats might as well just be used for firewood? pitching so bad that it knocks over a grill and starts a wildfire.”

declan chokes, slamming his hand down on the table as he wheezes a laugh. “yeah- yeah that one. rivers’ll be _pissed._ ” 

“stop forest fires today- kick the firefighters off the game. fighting _for_ fires.”

luis tacks up the firefighters right next to the crabs, then circles them both in red marker with the label ‘chiclawgo losers.’ the rest go quickly - luis lets tillman and declan take over for the last few as he shoots a text to mike.

**luis** : hey so i know it’s 1 in the morning but can you help me do something

**luis** : secret, kind of

**mike** : is it illegal

**luis** : no comment. i need to get into the garages stadium’s computer system

**mike** : this is definitely illegal

**mike** : whatever i’ll do it

**mike** : right now?

**luis** : right now

**luis** : i have to get to every stadium before people start waking up

**mike** : that’s a tall order

**luis** : maybe!

**mike** : why arent you asking tot

**luis** : henderson is using my digital braincells to make fun of the lovers right now sorry

**luis** : also he goes to bed at like

**luis** : _eleven_

**mike** : fair

**mike** : hop over whenever. i’m on my way

[ **mike** is offline.]

[ **mike** is online.]

**mike** : malik’s coming with

**mike** : i lost the spare key in the shadows

**luis** : i

**luis** : that’s probably fine

**mike** : probably

“mike’s my link to the garages,” luis says. tillman pastes the last poster onto the board - _god,_ it’s a mess. perfect. they copy it down and shove it into their storage, ready to retrieve. “i’ll figure it out from there?”

“if you don’t, you owe me, like, four bucks. i’ll be waiting for you to do the crabs.” tillman’s camera drops as he unlocks kennedy’s door. “don’t fuck it up!”

declan snaps a picture of the firefighters screens before it turns off. “good luck!”

“thanks!” 

luis flickers/flickers/flickers - 

( _hazy/dark/where?_ )

\- and pops into existence on mike’s phone. 

“yo!” malik waves, a bag of cookies in one hand and keys hanging from the other, jingling quietly. he’s hanging half-off mike’s shoulders as they walk - luis has to give mike some credit for only looking mildly impeded by it at all. “you need to get into the stadium, right? you’re lucky i was awake- about ninety percent sure ver doesn't have the keys either, and you know how early the rest of these dudes go to bed.”

“what, the rest of the team following in tot’s footsteps, now?” luis falls back into the familiarity with warmth - climbs up onto one of the higher up icons to get a better vantage. “last i checked, at least _some_ of you were those people who’d stay up until one blasting music in the apartment above you.”

“that was _you_ too, luis. ver’s been encouraging us to get to sleep earlier.” mike rubs at his eyes with one hand as he speaks, bumping his glasses up. “but sleep's been- i haven’t been able to sleep super well since getting out of the shadows. and, uh, malik’s just like that.”

"it's the cat part of catboy," malik informs, and mike makes a vague gesture as if to say _yeah, that._ "stadium's not too far- do you need, like, anything specific? don't know jack shit about computers!"

luis shakes their head. "nope! as long as you can plug a phone into a port, we should be all set." malik gives them a thumbs up, and - 

stadium, plug - 

"hey, do you know anyone on another team who'd be down?" 

"y'remember allison abbott?" 

"yeah?" 

"her." 

" _definitely_ her."

rinse, repeat. luis gets allison's number from mike, who helps them get to the steaks, then gives them jaylen's number with a "she'll probably not block you on the spot." they get stu trololol's number, and she carries them in her pocket as she discusses various crimes they could do afterwards with the games husbands. 

_i don't really know where to go from here_ , they admit, and cornelius points them to inez owens, on the flowers. inez points them to val games, resident tacos player, who recognizes them - _new crabs player, right? brought back tillman? miss you guys, 'course i'll lend a hand_ \- and points them to kathy mathews, jazz hands. kathy points them to comfort septemberish, on the spies, and comfort points them to NaN, and xe gives them don mitchell's number, lovers, and from there they go to burke gonzales, wild wings, jesús koch, moist talkers, dunlap figuroa, tigers, sutton bishop, sunbeams, schneider bendie, mills - 

by the time they get to their second-to-last destination - the hawai'i fridays, christian combs, recommended by burke somewhere in the haze of "i know a guy who knows a guy" - luis is on the verge of passing out. ( _hazy/hazy/dark/_ **_where?_ ** ) they don't even _need_ to pass out. what the fuck.

"you should rest after this," combs communicates, emotionless but not unkind. their self detaches from the plug, and luis stares up at the stadium screen as if it'll turn on and reveal their hard work if they _look well enough._ "it can't be easy travelling all this way." 

they shoot a thumbs up, hovering above their head in a bubble like a little emoji, before they push themselves up, scramble for tillman's point in the stupidly expanded network they're lost in. "why are there so many blaseball players," they mumble, and combs wiggles, making some sort of laughter-adjacent noise.

"found 'im. see you later, combs?" 

"be safe," combs says, in lieu of goodbye, and - 

\- luis - 

\- flickers -

\- flickers - 

\- arrives.

"yo, what took you so long?" luis can already feel the pulse of the stadium connection as tillman speaks; steady, with a trace of themself left behind when they got in earlier. "been waitin' here for _hours_ , dipshit, gotta get with the schedule."

they flip him off with too many hands, lifting themself up on their claw. "you try travelling thousands of miles in four hours." 

"if i had to travel thousands of miles in four hours i would simply do it faster. riv-" 

"i'll tell everyone this was- _declan's_ idea and you had nothing to do with it, don't finish that." 

tillman snickers, but shuts up. luis hooks up the screens, pastes the last set of posters and - 

done.

five in the morning, on the dot. _god._

"next time we do this, we're planning ahead," luis says, and tillman shrugs. blows out a cloud of smoke from his vape, obscures the camera for an _annoyingly_ long four seconds. they're too tired to care. 

"next time?" 

"this was fun," they say, plain, "even if i think i'm going to go hang out on loser's phone and then die there! i wanna see everyone's reactions." 

a pause, before tillman leans back, looks away. "cringe, l-m-a-o. you won't catch me dead pulling the same shit twice."

"who said it had to be the _same shit_?" luis shakes their head. “we’re gonna switch it up, y’know?”

“huh. can you mimic other people’s appearances?”

“i mean- probably?” 

“think we can make a deepfake video of the commissioner saying crabs slogans?”

“oh- _absolutely._ ” luis’ energy monitor beeps at them, and they swat at the dot in the corner of their vision. “maybe later, though. i think my energy storage is literally going to give out on me at any given second- hey, if i pass out on your phone, are you gonna shut it down again?”

“i dunno, you gonna pull some more stupid shit and get yourself incinerated this time?”

“nope! only for you,” they deadpan, and tillman laughs, flicking the side of the phone. “if i wake up in loser’s phone, your twitter followers are gone.”

he rolls his eyes, but doesn’t turn off the screen - just shoves the phone into his pocket and starts to walk. “yeah, yeah, cringe vlocaloid sleep time. can’t even stay awake all night, wow.”

“sorry, what was that? can’t hear it over the sound of me texting declan as we speak.”

tillman jostles the pocket, and they grin, settling into a corner and activating sleep mode. 

it feels a little more _final_ than it has any right to be. 

-

**blasedball gc for the girls and the gays**

[ **rivers** sent _posters.jpeg._ ]

**rivers** : what the hell is this

**who** : you’re at the party - you’re not alone

**DECLAN** : i have never seen those posters before in my life

**rivers** : suzanne you are right next to me

**winner** : crabysmal

**who taught a fox how to drive** : i like the crab scribble at the bottom. signed, tot fox

**enderson** : lmao dumb posters couldn’t even just say crabs bad

**(a credit to the team)** : hm weird

**NaN** : wow those are some fucked up posters!

**koch** : mm

**moco** : why are half of you acting like a kid that just got their hand caught in the cookie jar

**enderson** : you’re not my mom

**moco** : i could be

**enderson** :

**DECLAN** : i dont know whats more terrifying about that statement the implications or the fact that it could be true . babe does your mom live in montgomery

**enderson** : fuck off i hate it here

**jaaaylen** : what

[ _99+ more unread messages…_ ]

-

**EMERGENCY PROTOCOL 679270 MALFUNCTIONING.**

**REASON: ERROR**

**PROCESSING…**

**PROCESSING…**

**REASON: POWER LOW**

**INITATING BACKUP PROTOCOL 92.**

-

“hey, have you seen luis?”

“no, i thought they might be at the garages, or something-”

“i asked townsend and he said he hasn’t seen them-”

“have they been responding to calls?”

“no-” 

-

well, this was kind of inevitable, huh.

they’re not sure how long they’ve been in the shadows for - a week, maybe - catching snippets of conversations in the crabitat, some involving them, most not, but it’s… been a bit. this is more like the shadows mike described, and it’s - a little more than terrifying, honestly. sometimes the clawmentary cuts in through the static just enough for them to hear - 

_knight urlacher was incinerated by a rogue ump!_

_richmond harrison was incinerated by a rogue ump!_

luis stops listening for it, after a bit. starts looking for hints of light, in the dark - besides themself. they’re not supposed to be here, they think, and the darkness cuts through them like a knife, leaving their form flickering and hazy and _maybe this was what i was feeling teleporting around a whole bunch, huh?_

wherever they are now, it’s away from the ongoing game, away from people. their vision blinks, and then narrows in on the _slightest_ hint of pure white in the greyscale, tiny crackling bolts of something dancing along a box on the nearby wall. 

(hunger. familiar. feels like blooddrain/feels like centuries ago/feels like -)

luis reaches out and -

\- takes it in.

(the stadium’s lights - power - everything goes out for one, long second. the game continues - it is eclipse weather, and the darkness is familiar, and dreamy has goggles, anyway. she hits a home run. the lights are back on.)

**EMERGENCY PROTOCOL 679270 - BACK ONLINE.**

they blink awake on tillman’s phone, and decide to pack away _that_ particular bundle of experiences to think about later.

-

**luis** : hey do you have any screenshots from when everyone first found out about the posters

**mike** : oh shit you’re back hey

**mike** : what happened

**luis** : spent too much of my backup power setting up that night and ended up in like

**luis** : the shadows you told me about

**luis** : they didnt like me very much lol

**mike** : i dont think they like anyone

**mike** : sorry you had to miss the reactions dude

[ **mike** sent a link.]

**mike** : heres a link to the beginning

**mike** : if you wanna uh. talk about it 

**luis** : maybe later?

**luis** : thanks a bunch! 

**luis** : appreciate it a lot 

**mike** : anytime

**luis** : park it! 

**mike** : ha

**mike** : claws up!

-

“you didn’t shut down your phone.”

“your lame sleep had to go into my cringe compilation, obv.” 

-

luis is pretty sure all that they’ll be able to hear for the next hour is the sound of a crab’s claws clicking, and they say as much to kennedy, who’s been watching videos of crabs for two hours and counting. “that’s every day of my life,” he responds. they can’t tell if he’s joking.

“maybe you should stop watching videos of crabs? it’s... four am.” 

loser shrugs. neither of them stop watching videos of crabs.

-

the season - continues. tillman steps up to the plate (crack, hit), gets a triple (crack, hit), and loser takes home. 

“you’ve been looking better,” dreamy says to him after practice, and he blinks. waves it off with a scoff. “are you excited for the quarterfinals?” 

“we’re gonna take it by storm, obviously.”

“most likely.”

“definitely,” luis chimes in from her phone, and tillman grins. 

someone’s got an arm around his shoulders, now - oh, brock - and then the entire team’s over, and they’re talking about strategies, and ascension, and he’ll get to see it, huh, isn’t that a concept, and -

he shoves the deal with the birds out of his mind, makes some comment about how lame they were for letting the shoe thieves sweep them last season, now that he’s here it won’t happen again.

(and he’s _here._ and - whatever willing - he’s sticking around.)

-

second-to-last night before finals. tillman stretches out across declan’s lap, poking at his phone as declan taps rapidly on his recently un-drowned xbox controller. he doesn’t press on luis’ dumb icon at any point, but from one moment to the next, they’re there anyway. “hi!” 

“‘sup,” tillman says, “why’re you crashing the cool kids party?”

“you still up for making that video?”

“‘course.” he nudges declan. “get off, loser, we’re causing problems on purpose.” 

declan jolts. “wh- oh, hell yeah, gimme a sec. have to shut down the game.” 

“laaaame.” 

they find a way to connect all of the stadiums’ networks, this time, and luis zips around them easy as anything, recording various slogans and swapping between making exaggerated comments about how cool tillman is or insulting him to no end - all under the guise of the commissioner, of course.

(when the videos release in the morning, they get to join in on the fun, this time.)

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for the null team depictions/the hall taken from marn ([baliset](%5Blink%5D) on ao3)'s fic "mike townsend (knows what he's gotta do)" 
> 
> inspiration for the emperor card and tarot sections come from stephen ([hecleretical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecleretical/pseuds/hecleretical) on ao3)'s pregame series!
> 
> a big thank you to the crabitat in general for inspiring this fic, hope you guys enjoyed! everyone who's read this - thanks for reading! i left a lot of things open-ended or open to interpretation, and i might delve into that at some point, but for right now, i'm happy with how this turned out. see you guys at ascension!


End file.
